


Aurum, Ruber

by jessebee



Series: Alchemy Trilogy [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, Holidays, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-24
Updated: 2012-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-02 10:43:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessebee/pseuds/jessebee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry gets a highly unusual Christmas gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aurum, Ruber

 

 

 

 

 

_the flesh is weak_

_the soul is dark_

_when there's no desire_

_there is no heart_

_innocent lives can be torn apart_

_when love is all we seek_

_(Lowen & Navarro)_

 

 

He was, Harry Potter decided from the comfort of the huge squashy armchair he'd half-buried himself in, content. Or reasonably so. And if it was contentment with a good dose of melancholia mixed in, well, he was used to that.

 

It was the beginning of his seventh and, so far as he could see, last Christmas holiday he would spend at Hogwarts. Darkness and snow were falling outside the window, and from the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall as well, and all the students who were going home had gone. Not that he would have had to spend the hols here this year; Mrs. Weasley had urged him to come home with Ron to the Burrow, and Hermione Granger's parents had extended an invitation as well. But he'd chosen to stay, and tonight had sought out this odd room off of the Great Hall, the one that never seemed to be there during the rest of the school year. He shifted a bit, watching the lively blaze in the fireplace through half-slitted eyes. Why was he here?

 

_You should be home with us, Harry. Christmas is for family,_ Ron had said. Maybe that was the problem.

 

His friends were wonderful, wanting him to come with them to their homes. But no matter their intent, Harry always felt a little the outsider. _They_ were taking _him_ in. Maybe, just once, he wanted someone to stay _with_ him. Here, at Hogwarts, the only place that he'd ever really called home. Oh, both Ron and Hermione probably would if he asked them, but …

 

"But I don't want to have to ask," he murmured to the fire, smiling wryly at himself. "Terribly mature of me, yes?"

 

He did want, with an ache sharper now than at any other time in the year except his birthday, to see his parents. Hermione had told him one time of a Christmas custom that her parents had, of visiting the graves of the grandparents who had died before Hermione herself had been born.

 

_"Why?" Ron asked, his confusion plain._

 

_"Well, because … to include them," Hermione answered, her own eyebrows knit. "For my parents to remember, and for me to learn._ "

 

Ron had still looked confused, but Harry had known immediately what Hermione meant. He'd visit his parents' graves, if he could. If only he knew where they were.

 

Staying at Hogwarts was the next best thing, really. His father and mother had been here, lived here, called this castle home for seven years. Here, Harry felt a little closer to them.

 

Perhaps that was why he had stayed. It was as if some little voice had been urging him to watch, to listen. Store up the memories against the fast-approaching time when this would no longer be his home. Oh, he was going to miss it here, miss everything about it. Hell, even --

 

"Well, Mr. Potter."

 

Harry looked up. Yes, even him. "Happy Christmas, Professor Snape."

 

The tall, black-clad figure of his Potions instructor, Severus Snape, glided into the area set off by the rug and armchairs arrayed around the enormous fireplace, and regarded Harry with his usual faintly mocking expression. "You have a perfect record, it seems," the deep-timbred voice continued. "Seven years now you have stayed to bother Hogwarts during the holiday, rather than returning home."

 

What made him just open his mouth and reply, Harry wasn't sure. After six and a half years, he certainly knew better, he and Snape's improved relationship notwithstanding. "Hogwarts is more home to me than anywhere else is, sir."

 

"Indeed?" Snape tilted his head, one eyebrow raised. He sank (rather gracefully, Harry had to admit) into the wingback chair to Harry's right. "And why would that be, when you have family to return to?"

 

Harry spared a moment to wonder why Snape himself was still here. The man didn't usually spend Christmas at Hogwarts, so far as he knew; the only (live) people, besides himself, who remained every year were Hagrid, Filch, and Headmaster Dumbledore.

 

"My family is here."

 

"Really. I'm sure your aunt and uncle would be delighted to hear that."

 

Harry locked his jaw against the sudden half-laugh, half-sob that tried to crawl up his throat. _Oh, Professor, you have no idea._ "Actually, they would. They … were never terribly happy about my being given to them to raise."

 

Snape's eyes narrowed. "They are your only remaining blood relatives, Potter."

 

"Yes, sir, they are, as far as I know. But …" _Is there a way to say this without sounding like the whiny child he always thought I was?_ Harry stared back into the fire, and took a steadying breath. "I've learned that being related and being family don't always have much to do with each other."

 

"You are saying, then, that they were … less than pleased to discover you a wizard."

 

_You could say that_. "They weren't pleased that I was around at all. They … Until the night Hagrid found me to give me my first Hogwarts letter, on my eleventh birthday, I thought my parents'd died in a car crash. I knew nothing about them; still don't, really, not even where, or if, they're buried." There was a low rustle as Snape shifted, stilled. "In hindsight, my aunt and uncle may have been happy to find out I was a wizard, though. It did get me out of their house."

 

"Have you ever told the Headmaster of this?" There was an edge in Snape's voice that Harry thought he understood. _No, I_ _ **didn't**_ _go whinging on to Dumbledore about my life, thank you for asking._

 

"No, sir; the subject's never come up. It wasn't as though they beat me." _Much_. "They just would have been happier if I wasn't around."

 

More stillness. Silence. Harry waited, half-expecting one of Snape's trademark sarcastic pronouncements and pleasantly surprised when it did not come.

 

Eventually a sigh issued from the depths of the wingback. "Indeed. It can be -- difficult -- to be different. I am familiar with the phenomenon," Snape said softly, in a tone far milder than his normal one.

 

_Yes, sir, I believe that you are._ It had been during his fifth year that Harry had realized that Snape probably did, indeed, understand what it was like to be different in a way that one maybe hadn't asked for and couldn't help, and to be judged by others for that difference. Realized that the subtle, dangerous double-game the Potions Master was playing for Dumbledore required a kind of courage and iron will that Harry could hardly begin to fathom. Realized that the important thing was not that some Slytherins had gone bad, but that so many had _not_ , particularly under Severus Snape's tenure as Head of House. These were sobering, troubling little bits of maturity that Harry figured he hadn't asked for, but like so many other things in his life, he hadn't had a choice.

 

Snape must have interpreted his small sigh as disbelieving, though, because the silky voice continued, a little sharper: "Don't think, Mr. Potter, that you are the first student I have known whose family rejected them because they were different."

 

_Ah, there's the sarcasm I was missing earlier._ "No, sir; I'm quite sure that I'm not."

 

Silence descended again, except for the crackling of the fire, but it felt companionable. It was still an odd feeling, but one that had become familiar in the last two years or so, as he and Snape had been forced more and more, by circumstances or the Headmaster or both, to work together in the ongoing struggle against Voldemort. Between Snape's vast knowledge, cunning, and razor-sharp mind, and Harry's apparent talent both for stumbling into dangerous secrets and managing to survive them -- either through bull-headed stubbornness or what McGonagall had once called "sheer dumb luck" -- they had managed to bloody the Dark Lord several times and live to tell the tale.

 

Harry had begun to appreciate his teacher's caustic wit, particularly when it was aimed at something or someone other than himself. In fact, he'd discovered that, far from being the cheerless bastard he was labeled, the Potions master actually had a subtle, wicked, bone-dry sense of humour. More than once Harry'd had to snicker at some particularly scathing commentary.

 

Snape in turn seemed to find one or two things about Harry that were worthy of, if not respect, then at least some measure of tolerance.

 

Then, one late night, it happened. Snape delivered one of his typical thrusts and Harry riposted cheerfully, without thought, the same type of verbal sparring as he would have done with Ron or any of his other friends. And a second later froze, realizing what he had done.

 

"I'm -- sorry, Professor," he forced out of a tight throat and waited for the worst.

 

But the expected rebuke and loss of house points did not come. After a few moments, Harry dared meet his teacher's eyes, and was gobsmacked to find a tiny smile -- smile! -- flirting dangerously at one edge of Snape's thin mouth. "Sir?"

 

"Potter." The silky voice was … warm. "Never apologize for possessing a quick wit. But be very, very judicious about when, where, and to whom you apply it."

 

The air between them became almost comfortable at times after that.

 

Oh, Snape would still slice him to verbal ribbons in class -- and elsewhere if there were other Slytherins present -- but Harry could deal with it better now that he understood what at least some of the antagonism was: protective cover. If word were to get out that Snape bore anything but hatred for the Boy Who Lived … Harry shivered. He wasn't sure he'd wish that on his worst enemy, and Snape was far from being that.

 

There had even been a few moments, here and there, when Harry thought he nearly, well, _liked_ the man.

 

Now was one of those moments, and perhaps it was that which prompted him to open his mouth again. "Professor?"

 

Snape turned his head to look at him.

 

"May I ask you a question?"

 

The arched black eyebrow was quite eloquent: _Six and a half years of classes and_ _ **now**_ _you're going to ask a question?_

 

"A -- a personal one?"

 

A second eyebrow joined the first, a faint look of suspicion crossing the sharp features. _You may_ _ **ask**_ _, for all the good it may do you._

 

Harry took a deep breath and asked the question he'd wondered about for over six years. "Why did you so dislike my father?"

 

Snape went deathly still; then he glared, and Harry felt the temperature in their immediate area plummet, the fire notwithstanding.

 

"Surely you've had an answer to that from your godfather." The exquisite voice had gone icy, the last word pronounced with great distaste, which surprised Harry not at all. Despite the truce forced upon them by Dumbledore just after the Tri-Wizard tournament in Harry's fourth year, the animosity between Snape and Sirius Black, Harry's godfather, had in no way abated.

 

Harry winced inwardly, but forged on. "He's talked about it, yes, but I'd appreciate hearing it from you."

 

Black eyes pinned him. "Why?"

 

Harry refused to blink. "Because I've learned that there are always at least two sides to a story."

 

The ebony gaze held him for some moments longer. Then it seemed to soften before Snape looked away, into the fire. His dark voice was so low Harry nearly didn't catch it. "There may be hope for you yet, Potter." Amazingly, the ice of a minute before was gone.

 

"Sir?"

 

Snape didn't reply, but instead pulled out his wand from somewhere in his robes. A small, precise motion and a few whispered words later, Harry felt the air change, and the other noises of the Hall, few as they were, ceased. Snape had cast a silencing charm over the two of them, and a heavy one at that. Harry watched, startled and intent, as Snape did not put the wand away but rather turned it slowly between his hands, long fingers toying with it almost absently. After a moment the older wizard breathed deeply, his eyes still on the fire.

 

"Did you ever ask anyone, Potter, where your parents were interred?"

 

Now Harry did blink, nonplussed to hear Snape echo his own earlier thoughts. "I did, once. Aunt Petunia got -- upset, and didn't answer me." Uncle Vernon had, though; with the flat of his hand.

 

"Just as well. Whatever they would have told you would have been false, because they don't know. Very few people do."

 

Harry abruptly felt as if someone were sitting on his chest. "What -- "

 

"You may have learned over the years, despite your apparent lack of interest in anything not related to Quidditch or trouble-making, that there are rather a number of … unpleasant things which can be done with, and made out of, the deceased human body." The dark eyes were on him again, intent.

 

For a moment, everything seemed suspended; then the world crashed down around Harry again with a vengeance. Memories flashed by. Overhearing the Malfoys, father and son, in that shop in the Alley, talking about the Hand Of Glory. Hermione relating perfectly sickening information about a forbidden potion in answer to a question Ron had asked once, looking distinctly green while she spoke. Restricted Section books that hinted at hidden things, terrible things, Dark things…

 

Shock and horror washed him cold, followed closely by a hot sort of fury. Why in seven hells was Snape telling him -- wait. Snape.

 

Snape was telling him this.

 

Snape.

 

And Snape, he now knew, rarely did things without a reason.

 

Think, Harry. _Think_.

 

And the light broke. "Protection."

 

Snape cocked an eyebrow at him again.

 

"Protection," Harry repeated, absurdly glad that his voice trembled only a little. "It's all about protection, isn't it? Everyone's, not just mine. They were hidden away somewhere that no one would ever think to look so that they couldn't be … used. Somewhere so secret that they couldn't be found, someplace that no one knows …" He realized that he'd fisted his hands in his robe and tried to relax.

 

A corner of the Potions Master's mouth quirked, as if he were trying to not smile. "I am somewhat encouraged, Potter. You lack neither intelligence nor facility in deductive reasoning, when you can be persuaded to exercise either of them."

 

But Harry wasn't done yet. "And you know where they are, don't you?" he blurted, plowing ahead on gut instinct, still struggling to breathe around the enormity of the thing. "You and Dumbledore. You're the only two who know."

 

Snape's face didn't quite change, but there was a cool edge of approval in his eyes that Harry had seen sometimes in class, when a student had managed to surprise him with better work than expected. And occasionally over the last year, he had seen it directed at himself. Harry treasured those looks, the fierce thrill of going toe-to-toe with the challenge and measuring up.

 

Then the moment was broken as Snape rose fluidly to his feet. "Whatever you might have planned to be doing tomorrow, it is now cancelled. You will be going on a trip instead. I suggest you pull out your warmest clothes and robes -- you will need them."

 

_Bloody hell._ Harry loved game-playing; all right, he'd even admit that he'd come to almost enjoy the challenge of the puzzle that was his Potions Master, but Snape kept changing the rules! Harry uncoiled and jumped to his feet, noting with satisfaction a startled glimmer in the dark eyes. While he was pretty sure he'd never be Snape's height, he had gained some inches over the last year -- the man couldn't quite tower over him anymore. "Where am I going, Professor? Or rather," he continued thoughtfully, "where are _we_ going?"

 

The look of approval flashed through Snape's eyes again, and Harry felt a curious curl of warmth in his gut.

 

"Visiting, Mr. Potter. We are going visiting."

 

A flick of his wand dissipating the charm, Snape turned on his heel and walked away. It wasn't until the older wizard's tall form was halfway across the Hall that Harry realized, the restored noises of the castle murmuring in his ears, that Snape never had answered his question about his father.

 

~~ ~~ ~~

 

The next day was Christmas Eve, and Snape sent him an owl that morning during breakfast. Harry dutifully collected his wand and heaviest clothing and met the older wizard just inside the castle entrance. He hadn't been surprised to find Dumbledore there as well, to see them off. When he'd thanked the Headmaster for allowing the trip, the white-haired wizard had merely smiled in that way he had and replied, "It was time, Harry."

 

They traveled first by portkey -- which Harry wondered if he'd ever get used to -- and then, a quick glamour spell later, on a Muggle train, of all things. Harry found himself both impressed with his teacher's obvious familiarity with things Muggle and amused by his equally obvious disdain for same.

 

They settled into their seats, forced close together by the great number of passengers traveling that day, and Harry decided to voice the question. "Why are we -- " _taking Muggle transport_ , when a possible reason struck him. He shut his mouth with a snap, thinking.

 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Snape turn his head to look at him, felt the weight of the hooded gaze as distinctly as he did the physicality of the tall, lean body just about pressed against his side. "Kindly do not begin sentences you do not intend to finish. It is most annoying." The tone was caustic. Harry ignored it, gathering his thoughts.

 

"Lot of anonymity traveling this way," he commented softly. "Crowded as it is, I'd bet no one would look here for someone who didn't have to travel in this fashion." He glanced over at his teacher.

 

Snape closed his eyes and leaned his head back, folding his arms across his chest, looking for all the world as if he were going to nap. Harry waited, wondering. The answer, when it came, was so soft as to be inaudible to anyone not within inches of them. "Point to your house, Potter."

 

Harry spent the rest of the ride trying to keep the cat-got-the-canary grin off his face.

 

~~ ~~ ~~

 

_Oi, he was_ _**not** _ _kidding about the warmer clothing._

 

Harry tucked his gloved hands into his pockets and silently thanked Hermione again for badgering him into buying good quality winter robes last year. It was a sunny but bitterly cold day here, wherever _here_ was; they had gotten off the train in Edinburgh, and portkeyed twice more. They were someplace very far north, he guessed; the weather was clear now, but a line of clouds on the horizon foretold something nastier on the way. The breeze was freshening too, stinging his cheeks a little and tugging at the strands of Snape's glossy black hair that escaped his hood.

 

The 'greasy git' epithet Snape had been labeled with all these years had been rather undeserved. Harry had discovered this, to his own disquiet, over the course of some nights and weekends when he and Snape had been thrown together at hours late enough that Snape had apparently already bathed. The greasy appearance of his hair seemed to be brought on by constant exposure to potion fumes throughout the day. When clean, there was a faint smell of something pleasantly grassy about it, vetivert perhaps, and it was shiny and -- well -- touchable. Harry had shocked himself blue with that realization, and promptly locked it away in a mental trunk marked "Examine Later. _Much_ Later."

 

He was a step or two behind Snape now, working his way through the snow that was just shy of being deep enough to be a real annoyance. A shift of the glamour spell had turned their garments completely to shades of white, and Harry thought even Hedwig would have trouble seeing them against the snow. And speaking of having trouble seeing … "Professor."

 

"Yes?"

 

"There's something -- not right ahead of us."

 

"How articulate. Would you care to specify?" Snape's voice held its normal sarcastic edge; Harry disregarded it and touched the older man's arm.

 

"No, really, Professor, stop a moment. Something's not right."  
  


Snape stopped then and turned to look at him, his hair and eyes appearing darker than usual, if that were possible, within the confines of his white hood. He really did look quite alarmingly dramatic in white, a tiny piece of Harry's mind decided. The rest of him quickly gagged that bit and got back to the business at hand. "The air ahead looks wrong somehow. Like there's an edge to it, a big spot of place that -- isn't -- quite -- well -- " he squinted, " _here_." He used the trick that Sirius had taught him one precious night, the proper way to see very faint stars. _You don't look directly at them, but rather try it at the corner of your eye. Look to the side._

 

He looked back at his teacher, to discover that Snape's eyes held that tiny slice of approval again, just for a moment. Harry wanted to crow.

 

"You may yet make it past graduation, Potter. That bit of different is where we are going. Remove your glove and give me your hand."

 

Harry stared, something unwanted and scary stirring through him.

 

Snape snorted and looked annoyed. "Your _hand_. Or does that vaunted Gryffindor courage waver in the end?"

 

Someday he truly was going to smack the snarky git, see if he didn't! His jaw set, Harry stripped off one glove and stuck his hand out. Long, surprisingly warm fingers wrapped around his. Then they were moving forward.

 

The world made a funny sort of a wrench, leaving Harry feeling like he'd just been yanked about six metres sideways and his stomach hadn't caught up yet. It felt like a portkey, only worse.

 

And then it got really bad.

 

When the world stabilized again, several gut-twisting minutes later, Harry cracked open his eyes only to have knives of reflected sunlight stab his brain. He hastily shut them again, holding himself still and taking deep, slow breaths, desperately forcing the nausea down.

 

"Bloody hell," he muttered when he thought it mostly safe to open his mouth. "What kind of wards are _those?_ "

 

"Not wards at all, precisely speaking." There seemed to be no comment forthcoming on his language; in fact, Harry heard a touch of strain in Snape's normally smooth intonation, and spared a moment to be quite selfishly glad that he wasn't the only one affected. "That, Mr. Potter, is an Unlocation Spell, one that is many generations old. I suppose I would be misguided in expecting you to know what that is?" Snape finished, waspishly.

 

"Uhm, yes, I do, actually. That's -- impressive." Harry could hear Hermione's precise voice in his head as he remembered the conversation.

 

" _It's the most powerful protective spell known, designed to protect physical property. It doesn't hide things; it actually moves them."_

 

_"Moves them? Moves them where?" That was Ron._

 

_"Well, that's hard to say, really; no one seems to exactly know. It sets things, well, out of phase, you could say, with our reality. It's rarely used because it takes an enormous amount of energy and skill, you have to have a group of wizards to cast it, and it's incredibly dangerous. Once in place, though, it's the perfect disguise."_

 

_"Why?" Harry asked._

 

_"Because to either a wizard or a Muggle who doesn't know it's there, it isn't there. You can walk right through the middle of the area and never see, never feel a thing. If the spell is not keyed to you, you'll never know." Hermione's eyes were shining with an appreciative light._

 

_Ron just looked puzzled. "Then how do you get in?"_

 

_Hermione rolled her eyes, and Harry tried not to snicker. "By being in physical contact with someone to whom the spell is keyed, of course. Honestly, Ron, do you never read_ _**anything** _ _?"_

 

Harry smiled at the memory.

 

He tried opening his eyes again, cautiously, with more success this time. The landscape was still a glaring white on white, but with some large gray additions. Looking around, he realized that he and Snape were just inside an enormous ring of standing stones. Off to his right was a house, a low, rambling, cottage-y sort of affair, its walls the gray of the standing stones, the roof black where it peeped out from beneath its blanket of snow.

 

Directly in front of him was -- a graveyard. A quite large graveyard. Row upon row of white-covered humps of many shapes and all sizes.

 

Somewhere in this quiet, guarded place his parents were buried, keeping company with the rest of the memories in this field of the dead …

 

"Come along."

 

The precise words dropped like stones into his distraction and Harry started, then swore silently at himself for doing so. Snape had let go of his hand and was already moving forward between the snow-draped headstones. Harry followed, shoving both hands into his cloak pockets and fighting a sudden attack of fanged butterflies in his stomach. He was ready for this, wasn't he? Of course he was. Only yesterday he'd been sitting there at Hogwarts and wishing for this. He was seventeen and a half, and his parents had been dead for most all of his life. He had clearer memories of seeing them as ghost forms than as living people, for pity's sake. Of course he was ready.

 

Snape had stopped next to a large, low stone and was brushing the snow from the reddish-veined granite with curiously gentle sweeps of his hand. Inscriptions emerged.

 

_Lily Evans Potter_

Sweet friend, and true

 

James Potter

_Brave heart to the end_

 

Harry stared.

 

Oh.

 

The butterflies stepped up their assault.

 

Oh, God.

 

Oh, he was _not_ ready for this.

 

The cold, the snow, Snape -- everything faded out as his vision tunneled in on the carved stone in front of him. He knelt down; or maybe it was that his knees gave out, he wasn't sure.

 

For what seemed like a long time all he could do was stare at the words. Then he watched, from somewhere outside himself, as his ungloved hand slowly stretched out.

 

The icy kiss of the stone against his fingertips slammed him back into his body with a painful jolt. Every sensation was suddenly, shockingly strong -- the increasing cut of the wind, the cold snow-smell, the frigid wet spreading up from his knees and shins where he knelt in the snow. It was all real; it was the world he lived in, through no asking of his own. He lived. And his mother and father were dead.

 

It was so very, very cold.

 

It might have only been minutes, but it felt like hours later that he became aware of another presence, a voice. But it didn't quite break through, didn't reach him in this cold place.

 

Then there was touch. A hand, warm and real, upon his left shoulder. The contact was light, tentative; Harry managed, somehow, to reach back and lay his hand across the other, holding on. A lifeline, a link back. The hand gripped his shoulder, squeezed; Harry breathed. The sharp wind brought him a grassy, familiar smell. Vetivert.

 

"Potter." It was Snape, but Harry couldn't seem to answer him.

 

"Harry. We need to go, the snow is nearly upon us." Snape's voice was even, uninflected.

 

"All right." Harry's own voice disturbed him, cracked as it was. He began to try to move, but his legs didn't want to work. Perhaps they were frozen to the ground.

 

The hand that had rested on his shoulder moved under his elbow and tugged, its owner obviously losing patience. Harry struggled to his feet, staggering a little as his knees protested. Snape's arm went round his back and under his shoulder then, holding him upright.

 

"Come _on_ , Potter, walk." The exasperation was plain. "You do remember how?"

 

Irritation sparked heat through Harry's chest, chasing away a little of the cold and giving him strength to move. God, couldn't the man ever let up?

 

Of course not. This was Professor Severus Snape, after all, and Harry was just a lowly -- detested -- idiotic -- Gryffindor. Just as his father had been.

 

Shivers wracked him hard now as they made their way over to the house he had noted earlier, the outline of which was becoming blurred by the snow. The heat from his burst of anger was fading, leaving him to realize just how frozen he truly was. He must have been kneeling there for far longer than he'd thought.

 

They came underneath the house's broad eaves. Snape unlocked the door with a quick "Alohomora," steered Harry inside and closed it behind them, shutting out the now stiff and still rising wind and the increasingly heavy snowfall.

 

Harry had a few moments to notice the clean black and white tile of the entryway floor and the heavy wood furnishings as Snape pulled off his own outer cloak and slung it onto a hook on the coatbench; then the Potions master was leading him through a lushly appointed sitting room, a short stark corridor, and into another much smaller room. A quick wand stroke set the logs in the fireplace ablaze. Snape thrust a mass of fabric into his shaking hands.

 

"Get out of your wet things immediately, Potter, and wrap up by the fire. I shall return shortly." With that, Snape left the room through a door opposite the one they had entered, closing it behind him.

 

Left alone, Harry moved closer to the fireplace and slowly began to do as instructed, struggling out of his boots and socks and wet, heavy outer cloak. The lower portions of his robe and trousers were also soaked and he peeled them off as well, draping everything over the fireplace fender rail. His clothes had returned to their normal colors, and he couldn't remember when it had happened. He made a vague mental note to ask Snape if it had been the passage through the Unlocation Spell that had cancelled the glamour. Wrapping the fabric, which turned out to be a quilt, around himself, Harry pushed an armchair as close to the fire as he could and curled into it, tucking his bare legs and feet up underneath the blanket.

 

His shivers began to subside as the fire's heat seeped into him. He relaxed further into the embrace of the chair, half-closing his eyes. He was exhausted, he realized; his muscles felt like he'd had a couple of horridly bad landings during Quidditch practice, and his stomach was still queasy from the butterflies' attack. In an effort to stay awake, he began to look around the room.

 

It was smallish and rather cozy-looking, with dark wood furniture against lighter-colored walls. The fireplace mantel and surround were intricately carved, the design some complex thing that his eyes wouldn't quite focus on. Three chairs and several small tables of various styles were arranged around the large fireplace, and looked like they'd been chosen for comfort and practicality rather than to impress a visitor. The rest of the furniture and draperies appeared equally homey. The effect overall was comfortable, lived-in.

 

The dominant color seemed to be … green.

 

That last fact clicked into place with other pieces of a puzzle that Harry's subconscious had been assembling, and the answer that was now presented made Harry sit upright, pushing his tiredness aside as he took in his surrounding with more care. He squinted and looked hard at the mantle. The design came into focus -- a graceful, complex knotwork of animal forms, with one repeated far more often than the others. A snake.

 

The door suddenly opened and Harry turned to see Snape coming back into the room, a tray bearing mugs and sandwiches trailing obediently in his wake. The opaque gaze swept over the clothing drying before the fire and then critically examined Harry himself. Snape gave a small nod, as if mollified, and seated himself in the chair opposite Harry's. The tray settled down on the table by Harry's elbow.

 

One of the mugs rose and drifted over to Snape in response to his soft "Accio." He cradled it with both hands and blew across the rim, then took a sip. He eyed Harry, who sat motionless, still caught in the shock of discovery. "Tea, Mr. Potter, is far more efficacious if consumed while still hot."

 

The very normality of the barb released Harry from his paralysis, and he reached over and gingerly picked the remaining mug up off the tray. The pottery was delightfully hot without being scalding, steam curling up from the murky liquid within. He took a cautious taste. A strong black tea, well-laced with mint. That seemed appropriately Snape-ish, somehow.

 

"The snow has come on faster than anticipated. As it is not possible to Apparate in or out of this place, even did you have your license to do so--" The dark glare made it quite clear that Harry had better _not_ have mastered Apparation yet, as he could not legally test to do so until the end of his seventh year. "We shall remain here until the storm subsides, which may not be for a day or so. The house is kept well-stocked for just such contingencies." This last was delivered to the fireplace where Snape had returned his gaze.

 

Silence fell and Harry was glad to have it for a few minutes, groping as he still was for his equilibrium. He was working on the same gut instinct that had informed him the day before at Hogwarts, the seventh sense that he'd learned not to ignore. He was right, he _knew_ he was.

 

Snape watched the fire, and Harry watched Snape. "Professor?"

 

"Hhm?"

 

"This is your family's, isn't it? The graveyard, and this house. You're guarding my parents on your family land."

 

Snape blinked slowly, still gazing into the fire, but otherwise was completely still.

 

"Thank you, more than I can say, for keeping them safe." Snape shifted at that. "But … why? Why here?"

 

There was an air of hesitation, as if the older man were considering his answer. Eventually he sighed, and it sounded different than his habitually exasperated ones. "It was, quite conceivably, the last place anyone would think to look." The rich voice was soft.

 

A dull ache pulsed to life in Harry's chest. Well, of course. That was rather brilliantly Slytherin, wasn't it? No one would expect his parents to be hidden so intimately by the man who had hated them.

 

"Only for that reason?" He knew he was an idiot for asking, but he had to know. His own hurt surprised him; he'd thought himself long resigned to Snape's opinions about his family. So why the hell did it matter what Snape thought?

 

"Contrary to opinion, Potter, I disliked your father little more than I did any other Gryffindor at first, until he had the miserable judgment to take Sirius Black as a boon companion. And then your mother fell in love with James, and he with her."

 

And then my mother -- wait. My mother? But I was asking about my father, so how do my mother's feelings come into this unless Snape -- felt -- something -- for …

 

Oh.

 

The dull ache metamorphed and slammed him like a bludger to the stomach. The tea he'd consumed sloshed dangerously. "My … mother," Harry managed.

 

That got him the patented Snape Superior Sneer. "Distasteful as it may be to you, Lily Evans and I were friends. We … had some interests in common. She had a gift for seeing below the surface that is rare in your House, and prized in mine. Her stubbornness, however, was purely Gryffindor. She wanted to better her skills in Potions and sought me out for assistance. She then decided that we would be friends, and simply would not take 'no' for an answer."

 

His insides still roiling with shock, Harry watched the firelight pick out deep umber hints in Snape's hair and gild his normally sallow skin, watched the gentle flicker soften the angular face. Combined with Snape's now almost pensive expression, it made him look rather alarmingly human.

 

"I thought the relationship over after your godfather's little 'prank' at the Shrieking Shack, but she won past even that in the end. She apparently had quite the row with Black." The thin mouth quirked upward for a moment. "And continued to owl me, quietly, regardless of anything Black or your father had to say. She saw no reason why her loving James should necessitate her hating me, despite Black's attempts to persuade her otherwise."

 

Oh. Oh, God.

 

"You loved her." Harry only realized he'd said it aloud when Snape glanced sharply at him, then back at the fire.

 

"Not in the fashion your teenage hormones would have it, no. My interest was never physical; nor was Lily's, I believe. But we were -- good friends, in our way."

 

"What -- what happened then?"

 

Snape sighed again. "We all graduated, despite the expectations of some. My contact with Lily became infrequent at best. Choices … were made, to be deeply regretted later."

 

He was alluding to his decision to join Voldemort, Harry realized with a cold thrill.

 

"Your parents married and, unfortunately, came to Voldemort's attention. You were born."

 

Suddenly Harry was again under that table in the Three Broomsticks where he'd hidden from his professors in his third year, hearing Minister Fudge's self-important voice: _"Not many people are aware that the Potters knew You-Know-Who was after them. Dumbledore, who was of course working tirelessly against You-Know-Who, had a number of useful spies. One of them tipped him off … "_ "Good God, it was you."

 

"Pardon?"

 

"It was _you_ who warned the Headmaster that Voldemort was after my parents!"

 

Snape stared at him, looking truly caught by surprise.

 

"That's why he advised them to go into hiding, why he offered to be their Secret Keeper!"

 

"How did you -- ?!" Snape rested his mug on his thigh and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Mr. Potter, I don't believe I even wish to know how you discovered this." He sounded very tired. "Yes, your parents invoked the Fidelius Charm, for which James made the appallingly bad decision to insist on using Sirius Black instead of Dumbledore. And Black got them killed."

 

"But Sirius didn't -- "

 

_"He did,"_ Snape snapped, jerking upright, all signs of tiredness abruptly vanished. His black eyes were blazing, and the fine voice contorted into a malevolent growl the likes of which Harry hadn't heard from him since the confrontation in the Shrieking Shack. "No matter that it was not his hand, Black's monumental stupidity killed them as surely as if he'd waved the wand!"

 

Harry couldn't have moved at that moment if his life had depended on it. He felt like a mouse caught in a cobra's gaze, mesmerized and terrified.

 

"His _idiocy_ is responsible for Lily's death. _And for that there can be no forgiveness."_

 

For a moment Harry was back in the Shack, watching Snape aim his wand straight between Sirius' eyes. _"Give me a reason,"_ he'd whispered then. _"Give me a reason, and I swear I will."_

 

He jerked back to the present as Snape vanished his mug with a snarled word. The older man launched himself out of his chair and stalked toward the door he'd come in. Jerking it open, he paused. "Through there," he pointed to a third, as of yet unused entrance, "is the bedroom you will use. First door to the left." Harry saw that his other hand was clenched so hard on the doorframe that the knuckles were white. "Washroom at the end of the hall. _Good._ _Night."_

 

The door banged shut.

 

The crackle of the fire seemed preternaturally loud in the following stillness. Harry swallowed, remembering his godfather's pale, haunted eyes when they'd first met that night in the Shack, and the pained eyes of the man who'd just left the room. "I don't think you could hate Sirius more for that than he already hates himself," he whispered. The words dropped, muffled, like pebbles into a bog.

 

The chill that the fire had chased away earlier had returned, setting up a shiver in his center. Emotion and information swirled through him until he began to feel a bit sick again under the onslaught, and Harry decided that he would just quit thinking for a while.

 

He drank some more of the tea, and ate one of the earlier-neglected sandwiches, but they didn't seem to help. The tea did, however, contribute to an abrupt urge to find the loo. Picking his wand out of his shirt pocket, he conjured a pair of slippers, uncurled himself and put them on, and then ventured out through the door Snape had indicated, trying not to think about what had just happened. The washroom was indeed at the end of the short hallway, and after taking care of immediate business, Harry found himself considering the large cast-iron tub.

 

Ten minutes and two heating charms later, Harry was sunk up to his chin in blissfully hot water, listening to the muffled howl of the wind outside. On the top shelf of the towel cupboard there had been a number of bottles and small muslin bath bags. Harry found himself absently fingering the wet fabric of the one that he'd chosen, and brought it to his nose again. Orange, coriander, nutmeg, spruce and … cedarwood? Lavender. And green tea. Calming herbs, in that combination.

 

_Correct, Mr. Potter._

 

Harry grimaced and sank completely under the fragrant water. Hearing the voice of one's least-liked teacher in one's head whilst in the bath surely had to be a Bad Sign. Although that wasn't true anymore; Snape hadn't been Harry's least-liked for a while now. Sybil Trelawney had to take that honor.

 

He surfaced again, wiping water from his eyes and raking his wet hair back. All right, he sighed to himself, time to sort this out.

 

Professor Severus Snape had been fond of his mother. More than fond of his mother, and she of him as well. Fond enough to shelter her remains, and for her sake those of Harry's father, for nearly eighteen years. A fact that would surely earn Snape a slow, hideous death were it ever discovered by Voldemort & Company. And Harry's godfather, no matter how one sliced it, did bear some portion of responsibility for James' and Lily Potter's deaths. Blame? No. Responsibility? Yes.

 

Bloody, sodding, buggering hell.

 

Well, now he could understand at least some of Snape's hostility towards Sirius. And towards his father as well. Had she not married James Potter, would Lily Evans have run afoul of Voldemort? Harry groaned, and laid his arm across his eyes. _Was it worth it all in the end, Mum? I don't believe Snape thinks so._

 

~ ~ ~

 

It surprised Harry not at all that his sleep that night was fitful at best. Questions old and new nagged at him, nattering, refusing to quiet until he was half-tempted to search out his Potions professor to see if the man had a sleeping draught of some sort stashed in the house.

 

When Christmas Day morning began to arrive greyly through the window, Harry gave in and got up, feeling tired and a bit wrung out. It was still snowing lightly, so he'd figured he'd be safe in getting some breakfast. Hopefully Snape wouldn't want to be leaving quite this early. He spelled his clothes clean with the very handy charm he'd learned two years ago from Molly Weasley, and set out to find the kitchen.

 

After finding that there didn't seem to be a house elf in residence, he went about making toast enough for two and tea as well, knowing that he'd seen the professor eat at least that much at breakfast. Snape hadn't been kidding about the house being stocked for contingencies - either there _was_ a house elf hiding somewhere, or the pantry had the best preservation spell on it that Harry had ever seen. And, to his delight, there was _coffee_ in there. Bloody marvelous.

 

 

Harry whistled under his breath as he deftly tipped the egg scramble out onto a plate. It had been a bit odd to discover that he rather enjoyed cooking, when he wasn't being forced to do it. And he was good at it, too. So why the bleedin' hell couldn't he seem to transfer that over to Potions? Oh, well. Nothing in his life ever seemed to make sense, anyway. He was used to it.

 

He set the plate down and pulled out his chair, then proceeded to divide his attention between coffee, eggs, toast, and the book he'd brought with him from the bedroom. He'd found a number of volumes in the bookcase there. Now he was deep into the exploits of the clan MacFusty, traditional overseers of the Hebridean Black dragons, enjoying it in spite of his normal ambivalence toward history books.

 

The sound of wood creaking reached him a second or two before the voice did, and it was only that which kept him from spilling his coffee. "Made yourself to home, have you, Potter?"

 

Harry looked up and nearly did a double-take. Snape looked tired and drawn, more so than was normal even for him. The man looked like he'd gotten rather less sleep than Harry. Even his acerbic opener lacked its usual sting, as if it were made from habit rather than any actual malice.

 

"'Morning, Professor. It was still snowing when I got up, so … " Harry shrugged, then motioned to the comestibles on the table. "Tea?"

 

"Mhm."

 

Harry watched the older man seat himself and reach slowly for the teapot. "If we're not leaving straight away," Harry ventured softly, "I'd like to spend some more time outside."

 

"Fine." Snape didn't look at him, concentrating on the pouring of his tea as if the fate of the world depended upon it. Harry felt a niggle of concern, and was immediately annoyed with himself for it. This was Snape, for God's sake -- the man could more than take care of himself.

 

All right, then. Harry finished off his eggs and rose from the table, snagging a final slice of toast, and took his dishes over to the sink. Picking up his book, he was nearly to the door when Snape spoke again.

 

"Do have the sense to keep warm this time, Potter. If I am forced to retrieve you again, I assure you that the results will not be pleasant."

 

"Yes, sir." Honesty prodded him. "And thank you."

 

Snape gave him a "what the hell for?" stare, and Harry hurried to clarify himself. "For last night, I mean. I'm sure that wasn't easy to speak about, and I appreciate your candor."

 

The look of surprise that crossed Snape's face was almost comical, and it jolted Harry. Was the man that unused to an appreciative word? All right, certainly there couldn't be many coming from the Hogwarts student body, but still …

 

Then it was gone, replaced by Snape's normal sour expression. "What happened, happened; I merely related the facts. Your thanks are superfluous to the issue."

 

Ah, the tea must have revived him somewhat.

 

"Go. Enjoy your wet feet and the frigid air. Do _not_ , under any circumstances, pass between the standing stones."

 

Harry nearly rolled his eyes, but managed to restrain himself to a nod of his head. At least until he was safely out the door. The man was doing him a favor, after all. _Yes, I do recognize a spell-boundary when I'm whacked with it, thanks awfully. Prat._

 

~~ ~~ ~~

 

Harry picked his way through the snow, trying to avoid the deeper spots and drifts that the wind, which had thankfully fallen off, had sculpted during the night. The drifts had been carved into some of the most fantastic shapes he'd ever seen, piled up against and snaking out around the standing stones and the grave markers. It was rather eerie, and breathtakingly beautiful.

 

Question was, how to find his parents' resting place again in the midst of all this eerie beauty?

 

_You're a wizard, Potter. Think like one._

 

Well, if that voice was going to insist on talking to him, and giving good advice, too, the cheeky thing, he was just going to have to name it. Let's see: the internal Snape? No … ah! Got it. _The inner Severus._ Harry grinned. That sounded quite appropriately pedantic.

 

He raised his wand. "Lumos Expiscoros."

 

A small golden ball of energy popped from the tip of his wand and arced up and out, warm against the cold grey of the sky. Swerving midair, it landed on the other side of the graveyard, its yellow glow picking out a particular headstone.

 

He worked his way over, reaching the spot just as the last of the wizard-light faded. A fine slice of mottled red was visible on the downwind side of the stone, and Harry reached out and brushed the snow away, as Snape had done the day before. It was then that he noticed the small symbol carved just above his parents' names. Heart, hands, crown: a claddagh.

 

Harry pulled his wand again and conjured a small wooden bench, charmed it with a heating spell, and collapsed onto it, pulling his feet up to huddle into a ball under his cloak. He stared at the headstone, his eyes watering a little, from the cold, surely.

 

_Basic first-year warming charm; plebeian, but effective,_ remarked the inner Severus.

 

"Oh, sod off," Harry muttered. He ran his fingers over the curved edges of the red granite, invisible little rough edges catching at his gloves. The lightly falling snow slowly dusted the back of his hands, soft white against the brown leather.

 

"Happy Christmas, Mum and Dad. I miss you," he said, finally, when he could get the words out around the knot in his throat. "Or I think I do, anyway. Can you miss people you never really knew? Maybe I'm just missing the idea of you, the family I never had. I suppose I'm actually jealous of my cousin, can you imagine? She couldn't care less about me, but his mother does love him. Even if it doesn't seem to be a healthy sort of love, sometimes. But then what would I know of that, really?"

 

He rubbed his fingers gently over the claddagh. "No, I do know. The Weasleys, the Grangers. That's what things should be like."

 

The image of his Potions master appeared in his mind's eye, and Harry looked toward the house, absently watching the windows glimmer in the spotty sunlight. What sort of childhood had Snape had? What had he gone through to make him into the person he was?

 

"What did you see, Mum? A gift for seeing below the surface, he said. Whatever else he's done, he's not lied to me. I don't think he has, anyway. What did you see in him?"

 

What was it that he, Harry, saw?

 

A tall, sharp-faced man of austere dress and sour disposition, sallow skin, his fingertips stained with the residue of the myriad potions he worked with. Jet eyes always watching from beneath lank, dark hair, filled with impatience for those who couldn't measure up and wouldn't try. Which usually meant ninety-eight percent of the students of Hogwarts. Harry grinned wryly. Never let it be said that Severus Snape suffered fools gladly -- he didn't suffer them at all. He made _them_ suffer.

 

A proud, cold man, doing what he could to atone for a twenty-year old mistake. A man who fought to protect his House, and the children perhaps only he was capable of understanding, in the only ways he could. A man who would struggle to save the life of the son of the man he'd despised to repay a generation-old debt.

 

Not a nice man, but a good man, true to his own code. A man who had done what he could to keep Harry safe these past seven years, with little help and no thanks from Harry himself. Or from much of anyone else, it seemed. Snape watched Harry's back. Was anyone watching Snape's? Dumbledore, surely, but the Headmaster could only do so much.

 

Harry stroked the edge of the stone again, and traced the words carved below his mother's name. _Sweet friend, and true._

 

A man who had put himself in mortal danger to shelter a woman who had been his friend, and who had given Harry the most painful and yet the most precious Christmas gift he'd ever received.

 

"I'll watch him, Mum. You were his friend, and he's taken care of you and Dad all this time. I don't know if I can ever be his friend, but I can certainly be one _to_ him. Whether he wants it or not." He grinned, feeling better, as he always did, for having a plan of action. "Another cheeky Gryffindor trait to annoy him with."

 

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

 

Harry stepped into the entrance hall and shut the front door quietly behind him, removing his outer cloak and hanging it on the coatbench next to Snape's. He sat down and pulled his boots off as well, tucking them out of the way, then pulled his wand and summoned the slippers that he'd conjured last night. Sometimes it was very good to be a wizard.

 

The house was peaceful and still. Harry made his way back to the sitting room he and Snape had occupied last night, wondering where the older man was. Opening the door, he got his answer.

 

A cheerful fire jumped and murmured in the fireplace. His professor was in the same chair he'd sat in the night before, a rather thick book open in his lap. His feet were up on a footstool, and he was quite soundly asleep. There was more light in the room, Harry noticed, and turned to see that a section of draperies had been pulled aside to reveal a window. Through the slightly wavy glass Harry could see his parents' headstone in the distance, the bench he had conjured still next to it. Looking back at Snape, he realized that from where he sat, the Potions master would have a clear view of where Harry had been.

 

Watching out for him, even here.

 

Harry sank into the chair at Snape's left, something warm and tender and unfamiliar and very unnerving settling in behind his breastbone. He stared at the profile of the man who had belittled him, tormented him, challenged him, saved him.

 

_Happy Christmas, Professor. Rest. I've got your back._

 

_ finis _

**Author's Note:**

> Story written in February 2003. First posting/publication March 2012.


End file.
